


Death's Country

by Elsin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Reclamation of Identity, or:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26055079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: Sometimes, magic returning to the world causes strange things.Sometimes, an anthropomorphic personification still needs a mortal's help in dealing with it.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24
Collections: Crossworks 2020





	Death's Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [facethestrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/facethestrange/gifts).



Death’s country is almost like the House of Black and White, except for all the ways that it isn’t. Really, there’s only two main similarities: the general lack of color, and that the whole thing is in the end about death. And those two similarities aren’t so very similar either; Death’s country is more grayscale, since Death doesn’t quite _understand_ color. Not well enough to mimic it at least. In the House of Black and White, there was plenty of color, except when there was nothing at all—but that was when the girl was blind; that was the girl’s problem, not the setting itself.

As for the death thing—well. The Faceless Men _kill_ people. Death just makes sure that they _die_.

The girl isn’t quite sure she understands the distinction there, but she’s pulled other faces on top of her own; she still dreams as a wolf, even from Death’s country where it seems like such a thing shouldn’t be possible—this is not the strangest thing she’s seen in her eleven years. Maybe twelve, now. She’s lost track.

There’s a fish pond, not far from the stable; it has clear black waters and bone-white fish. The girl sits beside it, a sword which was forged for Arya of House Stark on the black grass next to her.

Death collected it before they came here, after she killed a man and he appeared before her. She wasn’t anyone in particular then; just a girl in a mask in the dead of night. She knew the task would be easiest that way.

WHO ARE YOU? Death asked her, seven feet of bright white bone in a long black cloak, a black scythe in one hand with an ephemeral blue blade, in a voice that was not so much heard as it simply… arrived.

“No one,” the girl said then.

NOT NO ONE, he said. FEW HERE CAN SEE ME, EVEN AMONG CHILDREN.

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know about anything like that,” she said. She’d never considered what the Stranger would look like, when she finally met him—if this was, indeed, the Stranger, or the Many-Faced God, or—she didn’t know. So she asked him.

SOME CALL ME THE STRANGER, YES. OTHERS CALL ME THE MANY-FACED GOD, THOUGH I HAVE ONLY ONE TRUE FACE—MOST CANNOT SEE IT HERE, AS I SAID. I AM DEATH.

“I’m not dead, though,” said the girl.

BUT _HE_ IS, said Death, indicating the man she’d killed. Indeed, there was a version of him standing up from his own body, scowling.

_“You!”_ he snarled, lunging at the girl—but he faded, cursing her name, before he reached her.

The girl did not flinch. For a moment longer, she and Death stood together in an alleyway in Braavos. He studied her with his blue-fire eyes.

ARE YOU OF HOUSE STARK? 

Now the girl flinched. “No,” she said. “Like I said. I’m no one.”

NOT POSSIBLE. EVERYONE IS SOMEONE.

“Not the Faceless Men,” she snapped back. “You ought to know that. They’re— _we’re_ —your servants, after all.”

NO, NOT _MY_ SERVANTS. I HAVE ONLY ONE SERVANT, AND HIS NAME IS ALBERT. There was a mist gathering in the streets of Braavos, and a strange scent upon the air.

“Why are you telling me this?” The girl scowled and crossed her arms. “What does my name matter to you, anyway?”

IN THE LONG NIGHT, THE STARK LINE NEARLY ENDED. I ENSURED THAT IT DID NOT.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, too tired and curious to bother correcting him about the Stark thing. She wasn’t a Stark, not anymore, but maybe—

I ADOPTED A SECOND CHILD, said Death. THE FIRST FROM YOUR WORLD, AND HE WAS A STARK. MY COUNTRY TENDS TO RUB OFF ON MY CHILDREN, AND IT CAN PASS ITSELF DOWN. There was a long heavy silence while the girl took that in, and said nothing. Eventually Death continued, possibly upon realizing that she wasn’t going to say anything. I MAY REQUIRE SOME ASSISTANCE.

The girl snorted. “I’m already _assisting_ you, dummy. We _all_ are, or did you miss the part about being your servants?”

NOT HERE. I NEED YOUR HELP ELSEWHERE AND I CANNOT TAKE ON AN UNRELATED... APPRENTICE.

“I—I can’t just go running off,” said the girl. “I’m not trained, not yet.”

WHEN YOU WISH TO RETURN I WILL VOUCH FOR YOU.

She tapped her fingers against her other arm as she thought; she did not chew her lip. “Will I have to be gone long?”

I WILL NOT KEEP YOU IF YOU WISH TO RETURN.

The girl shifted her weight, sighed, and said, “Fine. But you’d _better_ bring me back if I don’t like this place of yours!”

OF COURSE. All of Death’s words were matter-of-fact, _arriving_ in her head, but these two seemed more—solid, maybe. She didn’t quite know the way to describe it.

* * *

Albert doesn’t seem to like her much, but then again the feeling’s entirely mutual so she can’t begrudge him that. Binky—and why Death has a horse named _Binky_ she has no idea—likes her well enough.

The day after she arrives, Death calls her to his study, which looks shockingly normal, if with a décor that’s a little macabre.

The girl doesn’t mind macabre; it’s just not the norm in Westeros _or_ Braavos. Not in this polished unreal style.

DO YOU WISH TO KNOW WHAT I REQUESTED YOUR ASSISTANCE FOR?

“Yes.”

THERE IS TROUBLE IN WESTEROS BEYOND THE WALL, says Death. THERE ARE MORE WIGHTS RISING. THOSE YOU CALL THE OTHERS ARE GROWING IN NUMBER, AND TOO MANY ARE BEING CALLED BACK FROM THE OTHER SIDE.

“And that’s a problem because…?”

IT IS A GREAT POWER CAUSING THIS CHANGE. SOMETHING STRONG ENOUGH TO RIPPLE THROUGH THE FABRIC OF REALITY. SHOULD IT CONTINUE, THE CONSEQUENCES COULD BE... TROUBLESOME.

“Can’t you do anything about it yourself? You’re a god, aren’t you?”

AN ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, STRICTLY SPEAKING. AND I CANNOT, NO. SOME THINGS MUST BE DONE BY MORTALS. Death leans forwards across the table. AND WHO ARE YOU, TO WISH YOUR INVOLVEMENT?

“No one,” says the girl, though this time it’s not quite so certain.

Death leans back in his chair; he doesn’t sigh, but she doesn’t know if he _can_ either. GO ON, THEN, he says. STAY OUT OF THE LIFETIMER ROOM. DON'T LEAVE THE BOOKS LYING AROUND IF YOU VISIT THE LIBRARY. He waves at the door, and the girl scowls, gets up, and briefly fumbles the door handle before getting it to open before her.

She goes out onto the black lawn between the fish pond and the stable, and begins to practice her needlework. Maybe Death shouldn’t have brought Needle, but he did, and she might as well practice. Can’t hurt, to have more skills. Even if the kindly man might well disapprove, but—he’s not here now, is he? And she’s not Arya anymore.

From the window of his study, Death watches his many-greats-granddaughter.

* * *

Each night for the next seven nights, the girl whispers a list of names under her breath. Each night for the next seven nights, she runs through the woods as a wolf. Every morning for the next seven mornings she goes to Death’s study, he explains a little more of what’s going on to her—though never what she must _do_ —and asks her who she is. And each time, she tells him she is no one, and fumbles with the stupid, stupid door handle on her way in and her way out.

In the afternoons, she looks after Binky. No one’s told her to do it, but she’s never been the best at keeping still and reading, and even needlework can only take her so far; the girl is used to being busy. This sudden quiet is… unsettling. She practices with Needle, too, and remembers the lessons Syrio Forel taught her, so long ago that it feels like a lifetime.

It can’t have been more than three years.

Syrio Forel did not teach _a girl._ Jon Snow didn’t have Needle forged special for _a girl._ Jaqen H’ghar killed many men for _a girl,_ but he’s the only one who knew her simply as _a girl,_ before she came to Braavos.

When she starts to put the pieces together, it seems stupid. Like the kind of thing Old Nan would tell her when she was just a little girl, which Sansa would believe wide-eyed and Arya would scoff at.

_Believing_ in anything didn’t keep her father alive. If anything, it’s what got him bloody well killed. _Believing_ in anything didn’t keep their family together, either. She hasn’t lasted this long by _believing_ but then again—she’s never been in Death’s country before. Maybe the rules are just different here.

She turns and rushes back inside, the afternoon of the eighth day, Needle still glittering in her hand. She doesn’t fumble the door handle on her way into Death’s office; you can’t fumble with a handle when you were too distracted to even consider opening the door, after all.

Death looks up at her entrance. YES?

“I understand,” she says, “I think. And—I know who I am now.”

AND YOU ARE?

“I’m Arya,” she says. “Arya, of House Stark.”

Death grins at her. Of course, Death can’t do much _but_ grin, given his lack of a protective fleshy layer, but she thinks he might mean it this time.

FOLLOW ME, ARYA OF HOUSE STARK, says Death, rising from behind his desk to stride through the door back into the hallway and down towards the stables. THERE IS MUCH TO DO, AND WINTER IS COMING.

"I’m READY, says Arya Stark, following behind Death. She isn’t grinning, but there’s a fire building within her.

She’s going back to Westeros. She’s going to the Wall, where Jon is. She’s—

Arya is, she realizes, going _home._ And without a moment to spare, too.

Death climbs onto Binky; Arya climbs up behind him, Needle on her belt, and doesn’t look back at the black country they leave behind.

She’s going _home._


End file.
